It had been a few years now since the Great Blackout and even longer since September 11th, but the preparedness bug that had bitten Erik after the Twin Towers fell was back with a vengeance. They were in the second half of another Hurricane season and he was determined to be ready for anything. The weather service claimed this year would be well above average, storm-wise, despite the fact that so far, all was well.
After that brutal season where three hurricanes hit their apartment in a matter of weeks, Erik no longer felt so confident in his preps. Later that year, in the horrific aftermath of Hurricane Joyce, he realized that he and Brin were extremely lucky to have come through the season unscathed. Joyce made Katrina look like an afternoon thunderstorm. That had been the single most costly natural disaster in American history. Even if the aftermath hadn't lived up to the infamous New Orleans storm, Joyce made Erik sit up and pay attention.
Erik’s top priority was to get a house and move Brin away from apartment living, preferably not in the state of Florida. They both wanted mountains and forests and seasons. Not just ‘summer’ and ‘not-so-hot’. As much as they liked the coast and the attraction of the ocean, the snow-capped mountains always held the young couple in complete awe. No, they wanted to move west. Maybe Colorado. Maybe Wyoming. Hell, maybe even Montana.
Then he could really stockpile. There just wasn’t space in an apartment for two people and all their stuff, plus the cache of emergency items. All in all though, Erik was proud of his little cache of supplies. Whatever happened, he felt confident that he and his wife would survive, or at least have a much better chance at survival than average sheeple. Erik shook his head, thinking of those citizens who cried and bleated and refused to think anything bad could happen to them. At worst, they believed someone would come to help, the police, the National Guard, the Government. Even Katrina and Joyce hadn’t changed their minds. The Government was not all-powerful. But it was good enough for them.
The internet groups and forums he visited frequently had given him all kinds of advice and tips on what to get, why, how to use it, and if it’s really important. Erik checked up on the sites every day or so, even the ones that sometimes tended to lean towards the more radical The-End-Of-The-World-As-We-Know-It scenarios. Erik wasn’t sure anything like TEOTWAKI was in the immediate future, but he found the advice invaluable. The guys online were preparing for Armageddon, but those tactics and skills were easily transferrable to surviving everyday disasters such as hurricanes, earthquakes and floods. So Erik read, absorbed, and adapted the information to suit his needs.
If he had the money and they had to stay in Florida, he’d buy a sailboat and prep it for use in an evacuation or other emergency. A sailboat would be ideal. On a family vacation once to the Bahamas, he had rented one of the little two-man boats and had a local who worked at the resort take him out for a day and teach him to sail. Not the fancy yacht sailing that the rich people enjoyed, but the hands on, practical kind of sailing that got you out and back alive every time. He had read a few books on the principles of sailing and had gone on a few day cruises with friends of the family. His parents eventually acquired one for their house on Lake Champlain, so he knew how to sail. He just needed a boat. Erik jotted that down on his big list of things to buy or acquire when he had more money or space.
Money. There was a cruel joke. His salary as a teacher was...small. Brin made more than double what he made in her sales job. She was one of the best reps in the company. They knew it and paid her well. He didn't mind that he wasn't the breadwinner. His time years ago as house commander had disillusioned him of what gender roles ought to be in modern America. Keeping house was no easy matter—he shuddered to think how much work his mom had done, raising two kids and maintaining an orderly household.
If we move, it'll have to be to a place where both of us can work. Brin's job is more important so that means it'll probably be closer to a big city than out at the base of a mountain. He sighed. They both knew the dream of living on a ranch near mountains with a cold creek nearby was just that: a dream. More likely they would end up in Dallas or St. Louis, maybe even Chicago. Those were the big hubs for her company. She was a rising star and her co-workers pegged her for taking the plunge and moving up to corporate soon.
He hated big cities and all the extra worries that came with them, but he had to admit, more money might be involved. That meant a house, a basement, land. Storage. He could finally have a study, a place for his swords. A workshop. A garage. He shook his head and tried to focus back on the task at hand. Daydreams would accomplish nothing. A house was just another item on his wish list. For now.
Deep down, Erik knew he needed some of the things on his wish list immediately…he had a feeling something would happen and soon. The Blackout a few years back had exposed too many weaknesses in the American infrastructure. The more time went by, the more he was amazed that no one else seemed to remember. He had a vivid imagination and could foresee all kinds of trouble ahead. Of course Brin just smiled and went about her business. After all, she had a high-paying, fast paced job and didn’t have time to worry about stuff like that, while Erik was just a teacher working on his thesis.
For now, Erik thought again. He put the heavy Hurricane Bag back in its place in the spare bathroom closet. Once stowed out of the way, he looked in the mirror and thought, Guess I’ll get on-line and check in with the preparedness boards.
Erik sat down at the computer with a sigh and checked for new messages, half listening to the last of the crickets and cicadas and God knew what else that lurked outside in the steamy, tropical night. In a few more months he figured, those pests would be gone for the winter. Another plus for leaving Florida. The bugs. He hated bugs. Especially spiders and fire ants. Florida was crawling with both and many things in-between. He shuddered at the thought and looked at the computer screen.
Something new…from someone named Transplant. Looked like a new guy in Florida. “Well…let’s see what you’ve got to say, Transplant,” said Erik thoughtfully as he clicked his way to the new message, entitled Can’t shake this feeling…
“Twenty-five replies already…this must be good.”
Erik read the message. Transplant was a Georgia boy who had just moved to Florida. He had been reading the boards for about a year, never posted. Prepping for disasters since Y2K and September 11th…the usual intro. Erik skimmed down and looked for the meat of the message.
Evidently, Transplant got a little spooked after the Blackout and looked over his supplies again and again, trying to optimize everything. He had been at it for years. Erik chuckled. This guy must be looking to get flamed by the old pros. Don’t you know, trying to get the perfect kit is a never ending battle?
Transplant went on to explain his irrational, or so it seemed to him, fear that something—he wasn’t sure what—was just over the horizon and it wasn’t going to be pretty.
There were the usual suspects who replied right away that they’ve been worried about TEOTWAKI for years; even some nut that said the Jews were behind everything. Another added something about building a tactical assault-wheel barrow. Erik rolled his eyes.
From peak oil, to a depression, to the devaluing of the American Dollar, to famine, two overseas wars, and the rampant spread of diseases, and terrorism, most of the members of the forum had a healthy respect for the unknown. Many of the replies were from people scattered all over the country who agreed with the newbie and were glad to know they weren’t crazy. The general theme was—except the real screwballs—that no one really knew what was coming, only it was something bad. No one wanted to say it was TEOTWAKI.
Erik sat back with a sigh and backed out of the message. That hadn’t helped at all. Now his imagination was running wild. He moved on to other topics he’d been following lately.
There was a lot of concern about how dry the western states were. Some talk was about the current hurricane season and how strange it was to be in July and only have one storm so far. It was eerily reminiscent
of the disastrous ’04 and ‘05 seasons. Erik looked up at the framed Hurricane Tracking Map that showed the paths of all four monsters that hit Florida in 2004. The most powerful: Charley. The largest and slowest: Frances. The corkscrew path that looped back on itself: Jeanne. And then Ivan the Terrible flattened the Panhandle cities. Where the storm paths converged was a star. That was where he and Brin had lived then. It was his constant reminder to be ready.
He sighed and glanced over at to his video game station. He slid the rolling desk chair over to the TV and powered up Modern Warriors, one of the most popular military simulation first person shooter games on the market.
Erik felt confident that if 'the end of the world as we know it' happened, his education would get him through the rough waters. After all, there have been many Dark Ages in history. Man survived all of them. History was a great teacher, Erik knew. And great teachers sometimes have to repeat themselves.
That was the future, though. For now, the online world was buzzing, he saw. He selected a match and joined in the virtual mayhem. After a few moments to warm up, the kills began to rack up in his favor. Bullets shrieked across the digital landscape and opponents around the world began to curse as their virtual representations were shredded by Erik. He focused everything on the game and slowly his fears and anxiety began to fade into the background, pushed aside for another day.
ARIZONA
Scorched Earth
JUST OUTSIDE FLAGSTAFF, Arizona, the sun was starting to disappear over the mountains to the west. Hakim shrugged under the weight of his backpack. He looked around. No one was nearby. He had not expected to run into anyone, but he had to be cautious. His car remained on the shoulder of the road, parked and locked. Technically, he was breaking the law by leaving his vehicle on this high mountain pass. An abandoned car along the narrow road as it wound its way around the top of the valley could cause a fatal accident.
Hakim smiled as he climbed up the steep embankment away from the road and into the pine trees. He was headed up to the top of the mountain. Absently, he realized he did not even know the mountain’s name. He shrugged under the weight of his backpack. It didn’t matter. He knew he was supposed to be on this road and drive south to mile marker 56. There he was to park his car, climb to the top and rendezvous with his as yet unknown partner. While he didn’t know it, sleeper cells such as his were being activated all across America this night. The time had finally come. It had been almost a year since he had passed on his idea and the tree was finally bearing fruit.
The Thousand, full of righteous anger, as Hakim, had received instructions for this night. This was the night they had dreamed about for years. The night for which they had trained, prepared, watched, and waited. This was the night all the suffering of their brothers and sisters in Islam would be avenged. This was the night Hakim paid America back for destroying everything it touched with its foul corrupting influence.
And it would all start with his car bomb. He smiled and relished his little moment of pride. His handler had advised him not to deviate from the plan put in place by the Fist leadership, but Hakim figured it was Allah’s will that the idea came to him in the first place. Best not to go against Allah’s will. Besides, the car bomb would start off the night on a good note. A bloody note.
Operational security dictated he could never know the identity of his handler. Even the handler did not know who Hakim really was, though the handler knew he was responsible for three sleepers, such as Hakim. Such it went, up the chain of command. That way, if one cell or handler was captured by the Americans, interrogated and then talked, at most only four operatives would be lost. No one knew the person above or below them. They only knew that there were operatives above and below. It was simple and effective.
The classic terror-cell. It had worked on 9-11 and it would work now. The Americans were too soft; they valued their rights and liberties to the point of absurdity. Tonight, Hakim resolved, they would pay for their naivety. He banished a thought that popped into his head which proclaimed America’s strength was due to those rights and liberties he sought to exploit. After tonight it would matter little either way.
Hakim began to sweat as he climbed. His twisted path through the whispering mountain pines took him further and further away from booby-trapped car. He smiled again, thinking about the surprise anyone would find should they tamper with his car. Chances are it would be a police officer, sent to investigate an abandoned vehicle. The driver’s side door was wired to a rudimentary homemade explosive fitted to the underside of the car in and around the chassis so it would be invisible to the casual observer. To see it, one would have to jack the car up first, then know right where to look. He hoped it was a cop who tried the handle. He hated American police officers. They were the enforcers of America’s perverted and immoral laws. In his mind, there was no law besides Allah’s. Islam is Islam and everything else is corrupt.
Hakim had taken care to go to great lengths to cover his tracks. He paid for the car in cash. He bought it used from someone who had just finished college and was looking to unload a beaten up old clunker, cheap, no strings attached, no questions asked. Hakim paid an extra thousand to keep the deal quiet. The kid didn’t know or didn’t care about title and registration—more the better for Hakim. If traced, the car would still be listed under the name George Humphries, of Topeka, Kansas. He figured George would get a rather unpleasant wakeup call sometime tomorrow morning. He smiled as he climbed ever higher through the pine trees, his footsteps muffled on the carpet of fallen pine needles.
To get the cash to pay for the car, Hakim used America’s media yet again. He had been watching a news program about identity theft when the idea came to him. Hakim figured if he really wanted to, he could make quite a living off of the criminal ideas broadcast by the media in America. He was intrigued when the reporter explained how credit cards could be stolen out of trash cans.
"People receive pre-approved credit card offers all the time. Anymore, you just throw them in the trash as more “junk-mail” and forget them," the reporter had explained with a somber face. He arched his eyebrows for dramatic effect which caused Hakim to laugh. "The criminal," the reporter continued, unabated, "then comes along in the middle of the night and digs through your trash. When he finds the credit card offer, he fills out the information, puts his address down and gets the card in someone else’s name. Now he’s free to spend and when he doesn’t pay the bills the victim’s name comes up and it’s their credit that is ruined. With a little thought, even the paper trial will lead back to the victim. Most identity thieves will never be caught—there are just too many of these criminals out there and law enforcement resources cannot match the number of credit offers sent out on a daily basis."
Hakim had wondered about collection agencies, though. The reporter on the television appeared to read his mind, for the bald man suddenly said, “The heartbreaking part of all of this is when the authorities go to the address listed on file for the card, they find nothing—by then the criminal has already moved on or changed names. If the identity thief knows what they’re doing and is cautious, it’s very hard to catch them.”
Hakim remembered thanking the reporter before he turned off the TV that night and went out looking through the communal dumpster. About an hour and a half later, he had hit pay dirt. The older lady down the hall had received a credit card offer and thrown it out after recognizing it as junk mail. Hakim took the offer back to his place, filled it out, and a week later, had a brand new $5,000-limit credit card. He promptly asked for checks drawn on the credit line, ostensibly for a balance transfer. The credit card company was only too happy to oblige, no doubt thinking of the interest charges they would accrue. Hakim then used the checks to obtain cash in order to pay for the car.
He very quickly got a few more cards the same way and used them to buy his supplies before anyone got suspicious. After all, his plan was never to return to Chicago. The things he had set into play would make Chicago very…he thought
for a moment as he caught his breath and leaned against a pine tree. What was the word?
Unpleasant. Yes, that was it. He shifted the weight of the backpack a bit and continued further upslope. The going was a lot rougher now that he had left the car far below. He could barely make out its small shape on the black ribbon that was the road.
Hakim knew he probably would not live to see the final victory over America, but he knew it would happen. That was no small comfort. And in the meantime, he and his new, as yet unknown partner would have enough cash, supplies, and equipment to last a long time during the coming chaos. He smiled at the feeling of pride that surged through his chest. Allah will be proud of me.
He finally broke through the pine trees and into a somewhat level clearing. Hakim took a moment standing in the shadows to catch his breath again and look down the dizzying slope he had just ascended. He couldn’t make out his car so far below through the dense trees, but he knew the bomb waited patiently.
Beyond the clearing, the mountain continued upwards into the darkening sky. It was a massive silhouette. His eyes—and burning lungs and legs—told him he had better find his partner soon. He was a warrior, not a mountain goat. He paused again behind one of the last scrawny pine trees. In the dim light, he looked around for people across the clearing. Still nothing. Just some tough grass, lots of pine needles and a handful of scraggly scrubs and weeds.
When he was halfway across the tiny alpine meadow, he could make out the outline of a car sitting on the access road—little more than a dirt path, really. In the dim starlight, he couldn’t see the driver, if there was one. It was an older car, big. He paused, about twenty yards away. The headlights blinked on, then switched off.
Is this it? Hakim shoved his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a heavy flashlight. He fumbled with it for a second, pointed it towards the car, then turned it on and off. He walked a few paces forward and winced at the crunching noise his shoes made on the dirt and gravel path that served as a road. The car’s lights turned on again, stayed on for about ten seconds, then switched off. Hakim was about ten yards away and repeated his performance with the flashlight. He could see the glowing end of a cigarette in the car. The driver was smoking. If this wasn't his partner he was going to feel very silly.
Alea Jacta Est: A Novel of the Fall of America (Future History of America Book 1) Page 3